Page 34 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
"Nobody told me about your jaunt to the theatre with the marquess," Mrs Mifford answered, waving a folded-up newspaper manically in the air.
"I was forced to endure the dullest of evenings, when I could have been at the theatre, basking in the triumph of my daughter making one of the best matches of the season," she continued, with evident displeasure.
"My dinner party was not dull," Jane--who had followed her mother across the square--objected, at the same time as Emily exclaimed, "Lord Chambers and I are not going to be married."
"Dull incomparisonto Emily's night, dear," Mrs Mifford offered her second eldest a half-hearted apology, before turning back to Emily, "Now, tell me everything about Lord Chambers. When do you expect he will propose? I do hope it's before Mary's ball, for I'd like to have something to crow over to Lady Jacobs--her youngest recently became engaged to an earl."
"Coffee, please," Emily called to the footman who was hovering in the corner; if she was to deal with her mother, she would need something more stimulating than a cup of hot-chocolate.
"Lord Chambers is just a friend," Emily said, once she had a steaming cup of coffee before her, "Mary thought it would be beneficial for me to be seen with him after the murder accusation, and he agreed to offer me his support. In his mind, our outing was not romantic but altruistic."
"How clever your sister is," Mrs Mifford breathed, hearing only what she wished to hear, "To throw you together like that. Tell me what he said, and what he did--I have a gift for reading men, and can divine from even a twitch of the eye if one is about to propose."
Emily bit back a groan; her mother frequently decided she was bestowed with supernatural gifts, and could rarely be deterred from this belief, unless something came along to distract her...
"Mrs Canards was there," Emily exclaimed, suddenly, "And Mrs Wickling. They're staying with Ethel, Lady Hardthistle's maid, who inherited her mistress' fortune."
Mrs Mifford's eyes instantly narrowed in annoyance; she and Mrs Canards shared a mutual dislike of each other, and both were constantly vying against the other for the imaginary position of leader of The Plumpton Parish Ladies' Society.
"That old shrew," Mrs Mifford grumbled, forgetting that she was almost the same age, "And with Lady Hardthistle's maid? No doubt she is fishing for gossip on you, Emily, and will return to Plumpton to tell everyone about you being a murderess."
"I am not a murderess, Mama," Emily gently reminded her.
"Of course you're not, dear," Mrs Mifford responded, in a tone which sounded remarkably dubious.
Emily took a sip of her coffee, to keep her mouth occupied, for she felt an irritated outburst coming on. Mercifully, distraction arrived, in the form of Eudora and Mary.
"You're all here," Eudora called accusingly, as she stomped into the room, "I woke up to find the house empty, then I arrive here to find you're all sharing a jolly breakfast--I'm never included in anything!"
"I was not invited, either, Eudora," Mary--who had followed the youngest Mifford into the room--said, sounding equally as petulant as her younger sister.
"It is an impromptu gathering," Jane called, cheerfully, "Mama read about Emily's trip to the theatre with Lord Chambers, and could not wait to discuss it."
"Yes, I'm very annoyed with you, Mary," Mrs Mifford added, forgetting that just moments ago she had been singing her praises, "You should have invited me to come with you."
"I couldn't," Mary grumbled, "Lord Chambers invited us, I couldn't demand that he bring you too. I wouldn't want him to think us unreasonable now, would I? And I do not have the mental faculties to deal with you being vexed with me today; I have to call on Cecilia to discuss the final plans for the ball and I'm so nervous--what if it all goes wrong, and I end up the laughing stock of London?"
"I didn't want to say, Mary," Mrs Mifford replied, with the air of someone who was about to be most unhelpful, "But I couldn't help but notice that you keep pear soap in the water closet--it's so old fashioned, this year the fashionable scent is rose. You'll have to change it, before the ball, you don't want your guests laughing at you, or casting up their accounts at having to endure such an out of style scent."
"It's a disaster," Mary wailed, throwing herself into the chair at the head of the table, "I was not cut out to be a duchess! I cannot possibly host a ball. I shall have to--I shall have to--"
Emily, her sisters, and their mother, waited with bated breath to hear Mary's plan to get out of hosting the ball. When she got an idea into her head, the eldest Mifford girl was wont to lose all sense of reason.
"I shall have to fake my own death," Mary said firmly, confirming Emily's suspicions that her plan would be mad, "There's nothing else for it. Northcott can visit the baby and I in Plumpton, but during the season he will have to play the part of the grieving widower, so as not to give the game away."
"You arenotfaking your own death," Jane interjected, sounding remarkably reasonable in the face of such madness, "And no one shall give a fig about what type of soap you have in your water-closet--isn't that right, Mama?"
"I suppose," Mrs Mifford sighed, "Though, we really should change them..."
"No one will care," Jane repeated, with a warning glare to her mother.
"No one will care," she echoed, petulantly.
"You're certain?" Mary glanced around at her guests, her blue eyes misty with unshed tears.
"Most certain," Jane assured her.
She must have stomped on Mrs Mifford's foot under the table, for, after giving a yelp of pain, Mrs Mifford offered her own assurances on the matter.
